


Jinxed

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Investigations, Medium Length, Post-Season 9 (X-Files)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-12
Updated: 2003-06-12
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: It seems that every time Doggett and Reyes plan a rendesvous after his transfer to L.A. their plans go awry.  This time his plane takes off safely and all seems well, until.





	Jinxed

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Jinxed

## Jinxed

### by Scifinerdgrl

Title: Jinxed  
Author: Scifinerdgrl  
Rating: PG-13  
Category: S/A/R  
Keywords: Doggett/Reyes romance  
Summary: In the six months since Doggett's transfer to L.A., all the couple's plans to spend time together have fallen through. Will a New Year's Eve terrorist plot thwart their latest plans? 

Archive: Please ask, please tell 

Feedback: 

December 31, 2002, 9:00 a.m. EST 

"Dear Monica, my flight arrives in D.C. at 10 a.m. You don't need to meet me. I'll take the Metro. Love, John" 

Monica closed the window on her e-mail and sighed. Of course she would want to meet him! For six months, ever since his transfer to the Los Angeles field office, they had been making plans to spend time together, and each time something went wrong. One of his cases interfered with their July 4th plans, one of hers ruined their plans for his birthday. He had the flu on Thanksgiving. She had it on Christmas. And now it was New Year's Eve, and they'd made plans to be together. Would it really happen? She couldn't help wondering if their long-distance relationship had been jinxed, but of course she wouldn't say that to him. He'd think she was being ridiculous. 

And maybe she was. After all, he'd sent the e-mail before leaving his house, and he was already airborne by the time she woke up. So far so good. But she wished he'd have called her instead, just in case the worst happened. She knew it was silly, but she'd have wanted to have the memory of his voice just in case... 

She shook her head to dislodge the thought. No, she promised herself, I will _not_ think the worst. But a few seconds later, despite her promises to herself, she keyed in the URL for flight information and checked on his flight. "On time," the screen read. Relieved, she sighed loudly then leaned back in her seat. See, she chided herself. Everything is fine. 

"Agent Reyes," her new partner's voice said, interrupting her self-talk. "Something on your mind?" 

Monica blushed and shook her head vigorously, making her newly restyled hair bounce seductively. "Sorry, just checking my e-mail..." Her voice trailed off in embarrassment, as she watched her partner's skeptical face growing even more skeptical. 

"Why don't you take the day off?" he suggested. "Get ready for tonight..." He winked, then added, "Whoever he is, he'll want you to be well-rested." 

"No, that's okay," she protested. "I'll be fine. I just need to..." 

"Agent Reyes," her partner leaned over his desk and whispered knowingly. "Go to the airport. Check the place out for terrorists or something. I'll finish the report." 

He knows! She realized suddenly. But an equally sudden realization hit her the next moment. He's okay with it! She couldn't hide the surprise in her face, and she was momentarily speechless. 

"You think I didn't notice that our phone log has suddenly started showing calls from Los Angeles? Or that every time someone mentions Los Angeles in a meeting you prick up your ears? You think I didn't notice how sad you were when your plans to visit 'an old friend' there fell through? I'm an FBI agent, you know," he said with more compassion than this straight-arrow had ever shown her. "Go. Pick him up at the airport. Tell him you love him. Then have a good time together. Forget about the report. I'll finish it up." 

* * *

The flight had more passengers on it than an early morning flight had a right to, but to Doggett's relief most of the passengers were sleeping. He wished he could. He'd awoken before the alarm and tried to force himself to go back to sleep, but worries about missing his flight made his eyes pop open every time sleep started creeping over him. After four failed attempts to get together with Monica, he was determined not to let anything as stupid as oversleeping interfere with their plans. Or rather, _his_ plans. 

Being apart from Monica for six months was only one cause for his misery. The other was Los Angeles. He hated it. He hated the smog, the traffic, the goofy rabbit food that people kept shoving in his face when he all he wanted was a burger, and he hated being assigned to work in the field office where Brad Follmer had once worked. Follmer, the teflon agent, who never paid for his crimes and seemed to have fooled everyone but Doggett, and, belatedly, Reyes, was still revered in L.A. He was no doubt behind this transfer, and was no doubt taking advantage of John's absence to make excuses to be with Monica. She'd reassured John many times that she was over Follmer, _way_ over him, and in the few months before his transfer, she had made it clear whom she did love. He'd returned that love eventually, but he couldn't help worrying that he'd done it too late, that there had been too little time for their relationship to blossom before his transfer, that Follmer's two years with Monica would have more power over her than their few months together. Spending time with her would have eased his mind, but so far it hadn't been in the cards. They had now been apart longer than they'd been together, and he wasn't sure what to expect when he landed. 

It wasn't just whether things would be the same that worried him. He had decided to move back to D.C., even if it meant quitting the bureau and finding another job, and she was a big part of the reason. He _had_ to be near her. He had to see her every day. She was his anchor, he realized, and his safe harbor. Now more than ever he realized how much he depended on her serenity and balance to keep him sane. It was still a mystery to him why this beautiful younger woman would throw her lot in with him, but he hoped she still would. And eventually, he would ask her to promise him to be with him until death parted them. But for now, he would settle for being with her on New Year's Eve. 

* * *

9:35 Ronald Reagan National Airport, Washington, D.C. 

Monica Reyes passed through security by flashing her FBI badge, and as she stood near the "Arrivals" TVs, an armed guard with officer's bars on his chest approached her. 

"Agent Reyes?" the man asked. 

"Yes?" she replied, surprised anyone knew her name. 

"Were you sent here for the task force? Because if you were, we're mobilizing down below," he whispered. 

"Task force?" she asked. "What--?" 

"Oh geez," the guard said, running his hand over his brow. "You're not on-duty?" 

"Well, technically, yes, I am," she answered, carefully measuring her words. "Do you need help?" 

"Dunno yet," the man answered, but from the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead where his hand had missed, she suspected otherwise. 

"Whatever you need, I'm there," she said, pursing her lips with determination and nodding slightly. 

While they walked to the elevator he told her his name was Stevens, and he was in charge of terminal security. As he'd done many times since 9/11, he'd been preparing for the risk that terrorists would take advantage of holiday travel to sneak past them, or even attack when they'd be guaranteed the highest number of casualties. This time, however, there had been a specific threat, but not from the usual sources. This time the threat was from a Puerto Rican group affiliated with the statehood movement. 

"That's why I just assumed, what with your name and all..." Stevens said awkwardly as they waited for the elevator. "I expected them to send a Puerto Rican." 

"I'm Mexican, actually," Reyes said calmly. She smiled to show him she took no offense at his assumption. 

Her smile had its desired effect, and by the time they'd arrived at the lowest level Stevens stopped worrying about his faux pas and instead was grateful to have lucked into a valuable resource. He could see she would be a natural in a hostage situation. 

**CHAPTER TWO**

9:40 a.m. 25,000 feet above Baltimore 

John had finally started dozing when he awoke with a start. 

"Don't nobody move!" an angry male voice yelled. 

From his slunk-down position in his seat, John could barely make out the events going on toward the front of the plane. A tall man with jet-black hair in a short crew cut had a plastic utensil at the throat of a female flight attendant. For emphasis, he moved the utensil a few millimeters, drawing a thin red line on the woman's neck. A bead of blood bubbled up then oozed downward toward her starched white collar. The woman's eyes bugged out, and she looked around at the passengers' horrified faces. When she saw Doggett's steely blue eyes, she seemed heartened, and arched an eyebrow as a signal. 

The question was, signaling what? 

9:41 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Washington, D.C. 

Reyes and Stevens walked through a thick doorway to find dozens of FBI agents, fire fighters, and airport security guards gathered in a large room, their arms and legs self-consciously draped over chairs and tables, affecting a level of ease none of them felt. Each time an arm draped over a chair back or a pair of legs crossed, a competitive wave of limb-draping and leg-crossing ensued, until the room looked more like doctor's waiting room than a situation room. The anxious men at the front understood it all too well. Seasoned veterans of anxious moments, they had done the same thing themselves when they were younger. They took turns droning out their instructions with every confidence that their people were paying close attention. Everyone knew that this was no drill. 

But the draped arms and crossed legs immediately undraped and uncrossed as an airport official walked across the front of the room, whispered to the special agent in charge, then went back the way he came without taking notice of any of the other men and women in the room. 

"Okay, this is it, people," the agent announced. "We have a situation." The room went completely quiet, and even the air circulation system seemed to be hanging on the man's words. 

"A flight from Los Angeles has been hijacked," he said gravely. All lungs in the room gasped as one, but one pair of lungs gasped especially loudly. "They are demanding money, an interview with Matt Lauer, and a new plane." 

All lungs in the room exhaled just as sharply as they'd gasped, and all minds shared the same thought: Thank God it's just an old-fashioned hijacking. 

"If you're part of the negotiations team, follow Agent Diaz," he nodded toward a serious-looking man to his left, and the man nodded his acknowledgment. Stevens stood to the leader's right, scanning the room. His eye landed on Reyes, and when he was sure she'd noticed, he nodded to her to follow the team. 

Reyes made her way through the groups that were forming according to orders barked out by the various team leaders. In her group's room several men and women in jumpsuits were running wires to a main desk and setting up a dizzying array of electronic equipment. 

"You!" Diaz challenged Reyes. "Who are you?" 

After she'd flashed her badge, explained her exchange with Stevens, and said a few pleasantries in flawless Spanish, Diaz hmphed and assigned her to a post. "Stay here," he ordered gruffly. "We're wiring this listening station to pick up conversations at the gate. We suspect there are collaborators here already, waiting to meet the plane." 

Reyes nodded and put the headset on. She pulled a notepad from her bag and dutifully held a pen over it, ready to note anything unusual. She silently prayed for something worthwhile to come over the headset, if only to take her mind off the horrible possibility that the plane could be John's. And even if it wasn't his, what were the chances of his being "on time" now? 

* * *

9:43 a.m. 25,000 feet above Laurel, Maryland

Doggett sat motionless in his seat, but his eyes darted everywhere until he saw the hijacker looking at him. He grinned sheepishly, then looked down, hoping he would look like a frightened passenger and not an armed agent looking for an opportunity. 

"You!" the man shouted at him. "Get over here." He nodded to an empty seat near the emergency door. 

Doggett obeyed, carefully keeping the bulge of his gun holster hidden from the hijacker's view. "Now what?" he asked as tremulously as possible. 

"Sit!" the man ordered. "Just stay there until we land." 

The whole cabin, including John, heaved a sigh of relief. We're landing, he thought. There's hope. 

The hijacker forced the woman to the intercom with him, then he picked up the microphone. "Stay calm and nobody gets hurt. This isn't about you." 

As he spoke, traces of a Spanish accent became stronger, and John heaved an even bigger sigh of relief. His Spanish wasn't good, but it was better than his non-existent Arabic. He might be able to help resolve this after all. 

* * *

9:44 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Washington, D.C. 

Her brow furrowed with intense concentration, Monica listened at her post, but could pick out nothing but the worried dialogue of loved ones seeking information about the flight. Even if she didn't have a loved one herself on this flight, their worried words would have tugged at her heart. But under the circumstances, it was all she could do to keep her own tears at bay. But for John's sake, and the sake of the other passengers, she did her best. 

"Anything?" Diaz asked, startling her. 

She shook her head grimly. "Just families and friends. Worried talk, people trying to figure out what's going on..." 

"As are we, Agent Reyes," Diaz said. "We haven't heard from them since they first took over the plane. 

"My partner's on that plane," she blurted out. "Well, my ex-partner." 

Diaz scrutinized her face for a moment then asked, "Is he armed?" 

"Probably," she nodded. 

"Is he trained for this kind of thing?" Diaz' words seemed innocuous enough, but Reyes could see him making calculations behind his ebony eyes. 

"No, but before he joined the bureau he was in the New York P.D., and before that the Marines. He has good instincts," she concluded. "I'd trust him with my life." 

"Stay here," he ordered, then turned to leave. 

"Sir?" Reyes pleaded. "I'd rather be in the terminal if you don't mind. I can pick up more with body language than just listening here." 

Diaz turned to face her, still calculating, maybe always calculating. "Okay. You have a cell phone?" She nodded and pulled her phone from her purse for emphasis. "Good," he said. He scanned the room, his eyes settling on each person briefly until they landed on one man who was sighing and looking at his watch. "Follow me," he ordered. 

"Agent Reyes," he said, introducing Monica to her temporary partner. "This is Officer Baez. He'll be your contact." And with that, Diaz wheeled in the opposite direction and walked purposefully toward the front of the situation room, his head turning from side to side as he checked on his people. 

Reyes smiled awkwardly at Baez. "Hi," she said breathily. "This isn't my usual assignment," she apologized. 

"It's not like it happens every day," Baez assured her, but she could tell he was a little nervous too. 

They exchanged cell phone numbers and made their plans. She would stay in the terminal, acting the part of a worried loved one, and report any suspicious activities to him. 

In the elevator a lone tear escaped down her cheek as Reyes let down her guard for the last time that day. 

**CHAPTER THREE**

9:45 a.m. 15,000 feet above the Potomac River 

Doggett sat at his "post," next to the emergency exit at the front of the cheap seats, his mind running through a dozen scenarios, listing his options, mentally rehearsing his moves, all the while keeping an ear out for sounds of trouble. 

"YOU!" the man shouted, his eyes focused on the rearmost seats. "Quit your talking!" 

Doggett looked over his seat to see three men looking up from a huddle. Uh-oh, he thought. Citizen heroes. They meant well, but they didn't have his training. He'd have to act fast if they tried something stupid. 

"Don't get any ideas," the man barked, this time addressing the whole cabin. He pulled something that looked like a cell phone, or maybe a remote control, from his pocket. "There's a bomb in the cargo hold. One move and I detonate. Comprende?" 

The passengers' faces, even the African-Americans' faces, blanched and became very contrite. Doggett hoped it was a bluff, but even if it wasn't, this changed everything. 

* * *

9:46 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Gate 46 

Monica glanced at the update posted next to the door: DELAYED 

She sighed, and gave her worries permission to line her face. Like the others at the gate, she could see that the weather was clear, other flights seemed to be landing at a fast clip, and the other terminals seemed to be buzzing with activity. "Why is it delayed?" she could hear someone demanding of the airline employee at the door. 

"Are you there?" she said into her phone. 

"Here, Monica," Baez answered. "Anything?" 

"Just confusion, anger, boredom... the usual terminal behaviors," she sighed. 

He chuckled. "Well, go ahead and get pissed if it helps any," he advised. 

"Thanks," she smiled. "I'll do my best." 

To her left a plane was disembarking, and she absently watched the arrival behaviors. Hugs. Kisses. Limo drivers holding cards with names... But at the end of the group she saw five dark-haired olive-skinned men, all pulling identical rolling suitcases. There was something wrong with those suitcases, Reyes realized. They rolled too easily. 

"Javier," she whispered into the phone. "Get me Diaz." 

* * *

9:48 a.m. 5,000 feet above the Potomac River 

"Attention passengers," the only male flight attendant on board said into the intercom. "We will be landing in a few minutes. Please note that the pilot has activated the seat belt signs. Please stay in your seats until the plane has landed safely and has arrived at the terminal." 

A few passengers chortled at the irony of this scripted message, and the attendant blushed, then took his seat. 

As the plane made its final descent, the hijacker stood with his back to the cockpit door, his weapon still at the woman's neck, and his other hand in his pocket, presumably with one finger on the button of his remote control. 

The descent was steeper than usual, making Doggett's stomach leap into his throat. This can't be good, he thought... 

* * *

9:50 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Gate 47 

Monica spoke into her phone as she wandered in a seemingly random pattern, a pattern that put her behind the men who had caught her attention. But she was disappointed to hear no words pass between them. And even when they took turns watching each others' bags as each went into the men's room, none of the men said a word. Monica leaned against a wall and stared at the nearby clock. "No, I haven't heard a thing. The airline employees won't say anything." 

"Where are you now, Monica?" Baez asked. 

She sighed in exaggerated boredom. "I'm just standing here watching the clock next to Gate 46, where the plane is supposed to land.. eventually. The sign a the gate just says DELAYED, but I think it's still going to..." 

Baez cut her off. "You can't tell me what is going on?" 

"That's right," she said. "I've told you all I know." 

"Someone's there? Listening?" he asked excitedly. 

"Seems like it," she said. "Although they haven't said a word. But I know something's up." She glanced at the group of men, and one of them took notice of her. She smiled her fellow-traveler smile then looked again at the clock. "It's due in ten minutes. I don't know how they know it'll be delayed." 

"Small talk?" Baez asked. 

"Yep," Monica answered. "That's all I can do." 

"Diaz is on his way with an undercover team," Baez whispered, although of course there was no need to. 

"I can't wait to see him," Monica whined, her high-pitched voice sounding every bit the anxious lover. Not a big stretch for her. 

"Hang on. He should be there any minute." 

Monica sighed loudly enough for the whole terminal to hear her, then started wandering aimlessly toward the main concourse. "Okay," she whispered. I'm looking for him. 

She described what she'd seen to Baez, and she could hear him repeating it to someone close to him. "Those suitcases are empty. I'd put money on that," she concluded. 

* * *

9:53 a.m. 500 feet above the Potomac River 

As they continued their descent toward the airport, Doggett glanced out the window. The Potomac River would be icy cold this time of year, he reasoned. It would take mere minutes for hypothermia to set in... 

"You," the hijacker said, nodding in Doggett's direction. "Open the door." 

Doggett's eyebrows said "Excuse me?!?!" but his mouth was agape. 

"You heard me!" the hijacker shouted. 

Doggett crossed his arms and stared into the determined eyes of the flight attendant. She shook her head in the tiniest of movements, telling Doggett to obey. 

"Open the damn door!" the hijacker repeated. 

"No! Don't!" the flight attendant shouted. The hijacker's weapon scraped against her throat, making a second, deeper and bloodier, cut. She started to struggle against her captor, and with each movement, the cut got deeper. 

The male flight attendant, seeing this, shouted, "Monica! Don't!!!" 

Monica?!?! Doggett realized. Her name is Monica?!?! As if on automatic pilot, his hand released the seat belt and in a graceful, seamless movement he rushed the hijacker. 

The hijacker shoved Monica the flight attendant to one side then aimed his weapon for Doggett's throat. Doggett flew into him with a flawless tackle, pinning him against the bulkhead despite the force of the weapon as it thrust into his neck. 

**CHAPTER FOUR**

10:00 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Gate 46 

Monica put her cell phone in her pocket, then stepped carefully around the suspicious group and bent over the drinking fountain near the men's room. From this position she should be able to keep an eye on the men for a few minutes, she reckoned. But she reckoned wrong... 

Two strong arms grasped her by the waist and pulled her away from the fountain, the force of the jolt forcing a spray of water from her mouth. She started to struggle then felt something in her back. "Don't move, bitch. Or you die," a low voice rasped into her ear. 

Water continued dribbling down her chin as her attacker dragged her backward. Please don't let him find my gun, she prayed silently. And as if in answer to her prayers, the man spun her around and held her from the other side. She had a chance, she thought, but with everything happening so fast she wasn't sure what she would have a chance to do. 

From the corner of her eye she saw the reason for the men's sudden action. Diaz, flanked by Stevens and a man she didn't recognize, was approaching the group with quick, deliberate steps. 

"Stop right there!" the group's leader ordered. The three others each drew guns and waved them threateningly. "We have a hostage," the leader continued. The man holding Reyes forced her forward roughly. "And our plane is here. Where's our money?" The men waving guns pushed the luggage carts forward. 

"It's not here yet," Diaz said calmly. "You've asked for quite a lot." 

"And where's Matt Lauer?" one of the three henchmen demanded. 

"He's not available. He sends his regrets," Diaz replied in the same even tone. "We had no way of contacting you..." 

"Enough!" the leader shouted. "Get these people out of here," he waved around at the frightened crowd. 

A security team appeared within minutes, and the area around the gates, which occupied a cul-de-sac wing of the terminal. 

"We'll do as you ask," Diaz said. "See? We've already started. You don't need to keep a hostage." 

"Very funny," the leader sneered. He glanced out the window, then whirled angrily. "Where's the plane?" 

"On the runway. We're leaving it there until you're ready to board it," Stevens said, never raising his voice, his eyes planted on the leaders' eyes. 

Diaz glanced at Stevens then added, "Your plane is here, and there are over fifty hostages there. You don't need to take one here. Let her go." 

Reyes could feel the leader's grip tightening, and then he said the words that changed everything: "We don't want that plane. That plane has a bomb on it. We want a new one." 

* * *

10:05 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Runway 5 

Doggett kept the man pinned against the bulkhead as the plane had jolted to a stop, and continued holding him there even though he could feel his blood pressure dropping. But the flight attendants and the rest of the passengers remained pinned to their seats, their eyes on the remote the hijacker held above his head. His fingers wrapped around it, and his thumb waved over a red button. 

The weight of Doggett and the hijacker trapped the pilots behind their door, but Doggett could hear their conversation with the negotiation team. He suspected the hijacker could too. 

The plane taxied to a stop in the middle of the far runway. The pilot cut the engines, leaving the cabin eerily silent. Doggett could feel his shirt soaking through with the blood oozing from his neck wound. The weapon was still in his neck, the hijacker's hand still on the handle, as Doggett held stock-still. The hijacker held still as well, watching the flight attendants watching him warily. 

He continued holding his device over his head, and shouted, "Nobody move! You're not going nowhere until we get what we want!" 

We??? thought John, just before he lost consciousness. 

* * *

10:06 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Gate 46 

"We're getting you a new plane, and the money's on the way," Diaz said. "You have your hostage here. No need to keep all those passengers too." Diaz' face softened, and he pled, "At least let the women and children go..." 

Reyes' captor shook her and demanded, "You got a cell phone?" 

She nodded, suspecting it had been the reason they'd chosen her in the first place. As if to confirm her suspicion, he slipped a hand into her pocket and withdrew it. He held it out to her and ordered. "Call him." He told her the numbers and she dutifully punched them in. 

* * *

10:07 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Runway 5 

Fifty spines straightened as a cell phone rang out. The hijacker put the remote he was holding to his ear and said, "Yes..." 

"It's a bluff!" Doggett's strained voice yelled out. "There's no bomb!" 

* * *

10:07 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Gate 46 

At the sound of Doggett's voice Monica's eyes widened in fright, then narrowed again with professional determination. Diaz and Stevens took note but remained impassive. 

Reyes' muscles tensed slightly, and her captor squeezed harder. "Tell him we are in the terminal..." 

"They say they're in the terminal," Reyes said tremulously, although she was inwardly mustering her emotional forces for the fight she planned. 

She could hear some scrambling on the other end, then John's voice came through the phone. "Who's there?" he demanded. 

"I'm just telling you what they tell me to tell you. What is your message for them?" she asked innocently, her eyes on Diaz. The men at either side of Diaz and Stevens stood at ease in the military sense only. She could tell they were ready for whatever might happen next. 

She surreptitiously glanced at the other terrorists, and was relieved to see that they were standing guard in a semicircle around their leader, their backs to her. The leader jabbed the gun deeper into her ribs, then nodded toward the gate and yelled "Open that door!" 

As soon as she sensed his eyes were elsewhere, Monica mouthed to Diaz, whose eyes had never left hers, "Three.... Two.... One!" 

**CHAPTER FIVE**

10:08 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Runway 5 

After wrestling the cell phone away from the hijacker, Doggett's last words before passing out were "Who's there?" He slumped against the cockpit door, letting the cell phone fall to the floor. 

The passengers, angered that they had been duped into thinking a common cell phone could detonate a bomb, wrestled the hijacker the rest of the way to the floor and hog-tied him with whatever they could find. 

Monica the flight attendant picked up the phone and listened as she heard, "Open that door!" 

* * *

10:08 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Gate 46 

On the count of one, Monica raised one foot, then stomped it as hard as she could on the terrorist's instep. She took the next standard self-defense move, turning away from him and reaching for her gun. But she'd made one miscalculation. 

She felt a heavy blow to her back and knew instantly she'd been shot. 

As she fell to the floor she could hear the popping sounds of ricocheting bullets. She lost consciousness with the thought that perhaps she'd been successful. 

* * *

10:09 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Runway 5 

"Hello?... HELLO!!!" Monica the flight attendant shouted into the phone, but all she could hear was the popping sound that under other circumstances would have sounded like firecrackers. 

She moved aside as one of the pilots opened the door, pushing against the lifeless weight of Doggett's crumpled body. 

"Oh geez..." he said, then took in the rest of the scene and returned to the cockpit. 

* * *

10:09 a.m. Ronald Reagan National Airport, Gate 46 

When the smoke had cleared, Diaz took stock. The terrorists all lay on the ground, twitching. Whether they were twitching from fear or from post-mortem nerve activity was irrelevant to him. Their part of the situation seemed to be over. He reached for the phone, still in Monica's hand, and put a finger of his other hand to her jugular. 

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

11:59 p.m. Washington General Hospital Intensive Care Unit 

Everything seemed awash in a swirling blur of fabric and metal that dissolved into clouds, which dissolved into an underwater wonderland, which dissolved back into fabric and metal swirls. 

"Hi," a voice said from the other side of three yards of cotton and in a tin foil room. "I heard you were awake..." 

That groan, whose was it? Ohhhh... it was mine.... Eyes... open ... your.... eyes.... 

"John?" she whispered. 

"Over here," he said, reaching over the bed rail to turn her face toward his. 

She smiled. It hurt to smile. It hurt everywhere when she smiled, from her lips to her feet, but she couldn't help herself. "John..." she sighed, her voice trailing off to a comfortable nothingness sealed by another smile. 

"Remember me?" he joked. It hurt to smile. His neck... the stitches... the bandage... His smiles pulled them in all the wrong ways. But he couldn't help himself. "We had a date for New Year's Eve." 

"What time is it?" she asked. "Did I make it?" 

"You made it. It's eleven fifty-nine," he whispered. It hurt to lean over her bed but not nearly as much as it hurt not to. So he leaned further and whispered, "Just in time for..." 

He was interrupted briefly by a few voices in the hall saying "Happy New Year," then he continued, leaning even further over her bed, saying, "Just in time... for... this..." Careful not to pull any of her tubes loose, he let his lips graze hers for a tentative kiss, then rounded them into a more possessive, more passionate kiss as her lips begged for more. He pulled back, careful again not to injure her, and said, "Happy New Year." 

**THE END**   
  


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